Sixty-six minutes gone.
The miss wasn't supposed to happen.
Not at this level.
But it did.
Alkmaar had built the move brilliantly—one-touch passes through midfield, triangles tightening like a noose until Rojas was dragged inside and Taylor forced to commit.
A slipped pass. A low cross. Cox caught going the wrong way.
And then… nothing.
Their No. 9, unmarked, six yards out. Goal wide open. Tapped it wrong. Off his standing foot. Ball spun sideways, like it got embarrassed mid-flight.
Gasps, groans, hands to heads.
Taylor recovered fastest—hoofed it clear, not clever, not calm. Just necessary.
Jake didn't speak. Just looked toward the bench, muttered something to Paul Robert, and raised two fingers—zone shift on the reset. Ethan and Lowe swapped roles for the next few minutes, temporarily switching press responsibilities. Fresh legs in structure.
Three minutes later, Alkmaar didn't miss.
But first, Cox reminded them why he wore the gloves.
Seventieth minute.
